It gives me strength to have somebody to fight for; I can never fight for myself, but, for others, I can kill.

Long story short. After my last post, I spiraled down into the Abyss again and attempted suicide again... and failed again obviously.
This time I took nearly 400 pills consisting of sedatives, pain meds, anxiety meds, every other medication I could get my hands on, Dramamine (to keep them all down), and chased it down with Mike's Harder Limeade. It was a pile of rainbow candies that could kill. Or so I thought...

Yes I was discovered.
No, the ambulance wasn't called.
Yes, I am fucking Immortal.

Seriously... I dont know how I lived. I was out for like... 3 days? Maybe? And I didn't even get out of bed until 2 days after that.

So.. We have me, near (but not close enough) Death for 3 days, and not even moving out of my bed for a total of 5 days.
That's 5 days of no food. 5 days of no water.

And when I finally did get out of bed, I was too weak to walk to the other side of the house to eat or drink. And the closest thing to me was... more alcohol. Thus calories to give me energy to get me to food. Needless to say I missed both the appointment with my doctor and with my therapist.

My daughter's 9th birthday is being celebrated Sunday.
Monday I'm going to the "mental health center".
I don't know when I will get out this time.
All I know is that obviously 12 days was nowhere near long enough to become strong enough to believe I am worth anything.

Cause I don't believe it. I never have. And when I got out, I believed it just the tiniest bit. ...and we see how well that went.
Well... now we begin again.

Healing the Moonchild
Take: 2

The Bad, The Ugly, and The Good: A Dyslexic Mix of the last 24 hours

It's odd for me to write sometimes. Not because of the very personal content that I share, but because of the time of day that I am most likely to do so. Usually it is after midnight and often close to daybreak. I have to keep that in mind when I write because otherwise the days that things occur will get confusing for me, and probably other people. So instead of saying "Today, ect...", I have to say "Yesterday" or Last night" even though due to my lack of sleep, it always seems like everything happens in one very-long day.. Even so, am going to purposefully write about "Yesterday" slightly out of order and the reason why will be obvious by the end of the post. (And don't skip ahead because that is just a really lame move and would ruin the effect.)

Anyway, very early yesterday morning (say... 3 am ish) I had made a list of specific goals I was going to accomplish. It was a very small list consisting of only 7 things. All of them pretty simple. Around 10 am I began working on this list, keeping focused and getting things done one at a time. (And if you know me really, really well, you would understand how impressive that is.)

One of my goals was to contact and make an appointment with a therapist. Now, from what I understand from other people, at the time of discharge from a mental facility, these types of things are completed by the attending staff. I don't know if the place I was at is run differently or if something kept the staff from taking care of this but either way, it didn't really matter. It was in my hands now. I had been given a list of three choices picked from my insurance provider.

The first one I contacted and left a message with returned my call 2 hours later and said she was not accepting new patients at this time. Ok, whatever, moving on. The next on I called and left a message with got back to me a little quicker, but automatically set me on edge because instead of asking the questions I normally expect (ok what is your name, date of birth, ect...) her first question was "How did get my number and who referred me to you?"

I did my best to hide the fact that I was taken aback by what I perceived to be a bit of a hostile start to the conversation and kept my voice as pleasant as possible. But inside, despite the fact I took a Klonopin just 10 mins prior, I could feel my anxiety growing. I did my best to explain how I had just recently got discharged and her name was listed on my discharge paper-work. Then she began bombarding me with questions about many things surrounding my discharge but absolutely none of them about myself. I answered them the best I could and all the while my anxiety grew like wildfire. Before I even realized it, my voice had lost its pleasant tone and had become cracked as I lost my composure. Finally she asked "What is it you want from me?"

Her tone seemed obviously annoyed and mine was bordering on weeping and desperate as I told her I needed to talk to someone. To see someone, to get help and that's why I was calling. She asked more questions, this time actually pertaining to me though still not the normal ones to be expected. This time they were along the lines of "have you never been to a psychiatrist?", "have you actually been diagnosed with anything?", "what are some of the medications you were put on" (which she interrupted me halfway through my listing them). At that point I did finally break down and was tearful and doing my best not to cry. I told her I had been admitted and was there for 12 days because I had a gun to my head and I just want to get help and start seeing someone.

The next thing I know, she says "Okay, I'm going to give you some numbers of other psychiatrists." At this point, panic had set in completely and I interrupted her:

Me: You mean you are refusing to see me? Are you not taking new patients?

Her: No, I am but... Well, honestly, you are a liability.

Me: But I have called psychiatrists before I even ended up in the hospital. Every single one I called have no appointments available for at least a month or more. The medication I have is only for two weeks. I am doing my best to get help. I want help. I need help and I need it fast.

Her: I understand that which is why when you call them, tell them you want to be on a cancellation list. (She then has me write down a couple on names and numbers while I try to calm myself.) I will also give you some crisis hotline numbers.

Me: (finally at the point where I am crying) I have all those already. I got them upon my discharge. I can't believe I am being turned away because I am 'too' desperate for help. I feel like you are pawning me off to be someone else's problem. I called you because you were referred to me and I am doing the best I can to get help and you are turning me away because of my history of suicide attempts.

Her: Well, like I said, it's a liability issue. I am going to be completely honest with you. If I take you on as a client, I am responsible for you.

Me: (still crying and now pacing through the house) And I am glad you are being honest with me, really I am. I prefer honesty. I, personally am honest almost to a fault, even when it's not in my best interest. But how many calls am I going to have to make and have people turn me away because I am in desperate need of help? I'm sorry, I'm trying not to be upset, its just.. I am going through all this, I am in the middle of getting a divorce, which was the catalyst, and I have called so many people before I ended up in the hospital and my attending physician told me that I show signs of Borderline Personality Disorder but he didn't actually diagnose me. He just told me that without support groups and therapy, the chances of me making it on my own are at 10%, and I have no family to help me and I just.... (at this point I went almost silent because I was overwhelmed and could not speak. All I could do was try to keep from sobbing out loud. I was having major difficulty regaining my composure as my anxiety morphed into a mix of depression, hopelessness,worry, stress and shame for not being able to keep it together. Finally I managed to do so.)

Me: I'm sorry. I just really, really want to get some help.

Her: Have you been to group therapy?

Me: (sniffling and not bothering to hide my depression) No. Not yet. I have plans to but I need to get my anxiety under control first

Her: Where are you? I mean, what side of town are you on?

(I tell her.)

Her: Can you drive? Do you have a car?

Me: Oh yeah, that's actually not a problem. My husband will allow me to use the car any time I need.

Her: Ok. Could you make it in tomorrow. Do you have about an hour and a half?

Me: (complete shock) What? Oh! You'll see me? Yes! Oh my god. Thank you so much!

At this point, I ran through the house to my desk and took down the information, directions and all. All the while thanking her profusely. Her tone was not AS defensive but it wasn't any kinder either. I thanked her at least six times before I hung up but she never once said "You're Welcome." I have no idea what to expect today when I see her and there is a part of me that is very concerned with how the conversation went. I have no idea what I said to change her mind.. and honestly I seriously doubt I will ask. I am too grateful to have an appointment (so soon even) to care.

That whole ordeal exhausted me to the point where I took another Klonapin to help me calm down and then went to lay on the bed to relax. I ended up passing out and sleeping for 3-4 hours. By the time I woke, it was dark out. My "To-Do" list, such as it was, still remains over half unfinished because my body still feels drained from the uncontrollable emotions several hours later. Hell, my muscles are even stiff and sore.

So that was kinda the Bad, The Ugly, and The Good.

However - There is more Good. And it's really, really Good. This Good happened before the call, but I didn't want to talk about it until the end because I really wanted to close my entry with a high note. I had a MAJOR breakthrough today. And I am talking MAJOR, MAJOR Achievement. And I am really proud of myself because this is Amazing.

While I was washing my hands in the bathroom, I was able to look at myself in the mirror and say "I love you."

Not only that, but I said "I believe in you and I forgive you. You are worth loving. You are a good mother. You are a great friend and you are really awesome because even though you are working so hard to better yourself, you are wanting to help heal others. I am proud of you for making yourself the priority though. You do have courage. You do have strength. You always have, even at your worst moments. And I love you.".

I said that to myself while looking in the mirror. AND, I didn't feel stupid. In fact, I felt it sincerely. I BELIEVED IT!

This is a major, MAJOR step for me and I wanted to share it because... Looking in the mirror and even saying "I like you" was something I have never been able to do. Even during my "modeling" phase. In fact, I have never been able to do that in my entire LIFE. I have always hated myself. ALWAYS.

So yeah. I had a Personal Monumental Moment. - I am even considering declaring July 9th a personal holiday that I will celebrate Myself every year. I just need a name for it. I don't want to call it something stupid like "Love Me Day" - but that's basically exactly what it is so it will do for now. So from now on, every July 9th, I will celebrate this occasion. And if I have a job, I will take this day off because it is a day just for me.

The Great Fall into the Abyss of the Mind

Been gone awhile.. Much has happened and much has stayed the same.

What has stayed the same? Still getting a divorce.

As to the "What" of the "Much that has happened..." It is a long story, as it should be, for many days have passed. I am too weary to tell it all but I will write some now, and some tomorrow perhaps.

About the last entry.. That day... I called him.. there was no answer. I texted him.. no response. I felt he was, once again, not taking me seriously. I cried... a lot. I broke the lock to the gun cabinet by prying it open.. i just didn't want to live anymore. I paced the house, gun loaded, safety off, cocked and ready. My panic came in waves.. I didn't know what to do, I just knew I wanted to die. In a last ditch effort, I made a call to his parents.. All I could do was cry.. plead for help. They thought I was his sister... so I hung up. Of course they would think it was her.. why would they bother thinking it might be me? Why would they care? I cried more. I sat.. I became cold and calm.

At that point I did put a gun to my head. Finger on the trigger, eyes filled with tears and staring at images of my daughter, myself when I was my daughter's age, my wedding picture, and that screenshot sent to me from someone who has still yet to be named. But though my eyes were filled with tears, I felt insanely calm. As if I were in the center of a hurricane... time stood still. I was at peace. And it was a peace I had never felt before.. It was a peace that felt "right". I wasn't scared anymore. I think I even felt a smile on my lips because I was so certain that for the first time in my entire life, I was doing the right thing,

Just when I had numbed myself to the point where pulling the trigger would be no problem, I heard him call my name. I remember blinking once as his voice registered and he called my name again. I heard the door press against the chain lock. My throat seemed to close up yet a whimper somehow escaped.

He heard it.
He asked if i wanted him to go away... did i?
Did I want him to go away so I could finish this once and for all?
End this pain and suffering that I seemed to be causing everyone including myself?
Did I want him to leave me be so that he and his family could live in peace?
Did I?

The questions raced through my head at lightening speed and before I even knew it, I found myself unlatching the chain. Weeping so hard that my entire body trembled before I collapsed onto the hallway floor. I don't even remember walking down the hall. I do remember him taking the gun from me despite my feeble attempts to hold it. I still wanted to die..

Why did I let him in? What made me go to the door and allow his entry? I still don't know. That was June 23rd. A Sunday. The date of my last entry.

The blur I remember from that point was being driven to a mental hospital by his sister. She spoke to me like a child... I didn't take offense as she is a school teacher after all. Tears kept falling. I wasn't sobbing anymore, but I was drained, raw, and empty. But the tears would not stop. I remember sitting in triage.. waiting for what seemed like forever. Waiting for a straightjacket. Waiting for him to just leave me there. Waiting for something to happen... It ended up I was waiting to be handed papers of permission to be treated to be signed.

Then I was walked away. Away from him. Away from the noise. Away into a room where I was made to change into scrubs and then offered a dinner which sat for hours untouched. Signed more papers. Blood was drawn. Spoke blankly to a psychiatrist and then sat on the gurney rocking back and forth trying not to go catatonic. More papers to be signed.. then I was lead outside and driven to another facility.

I was terrified to get out of the car. The tech and the security guard did their best to calm me but I was shaking so bad I could hardly walk. The guard walked quickly, the tech slowed his pace to match mine and make certain I didn't fall. I was lead through what seemed to be a plethora of outside "hallways" before we even made it into the unit. I could hear nothing but the buzz of the overhead lights and my mind seemed to focus on the moths and gnats that flitted around them as we walked. It was hot. It was humid. It would have felt miserable had I not already felt dead.

Finally we made it into the coolness of the facility. My first reaction was how I thought it odd that the pale green be the color of choice for "soothing". Granted it is a color for psychological "balance" but it is also considered to be associated boredom, stagnation, blandness, and enervation. I would have thought pale, calming shades of blue to be more appropriate. As I write this, it strikes me as odd to even have this thought at that moment considering my mindset.

I don't remember much after that. I know I was "processed", made to change into yet, another set of scrubs, and  given a room which I didn't leave for the first four days unless I was "made" to do so by the staff in order to eat or take meds. I didn't speak to anyone, patient, tech, nurse... I didn't trust anyone. I always looked down, never meeting anyone's eyes. I got compliments on my hair.. (which is blue now, btw, by accident) to which I mumbled 'thank you' before hurrying back to the safety of my room.

Many nights I spent panicked and curled up into a corner wrapped in a blanket when other patients (usually male) would get out of hand and start screaming in the middle of the night. This was an on-going thing until the doctor ordered meds to sedate me. But after a few days, I grew immune and the sleeping pills alone were no longer enough.

I slept most of the first 5 of the 12 days spent there... It was a long road ahead..

As stated, the first several days were spent in my room. Insomnia hit me at night, but the days I slept almost constantly because of the mix of anxiety medication and the chronic deep depression. When awake, tears fell near constantly. My thoughts.. I am not sure I could tell you exactly what they were other than feeling ashamed of my worthlessness. The patients who had visitors were constant reminders of how (I perceived) no one gave a shit about me. That it did not matter if I rotted there. I would listen to conversations.. so many of them. One of them being between two techs. They spoke of how there was a guy on the west unit who had, at that point, been in the facility 10 months. 10 Months!! His family apparently signed him in. They spoke about how he would get calls from them, and he would walk to the phone as if to take the call, and then simply hang up. I thought about him a lot. I wondered if I were to end up staying that long (or longer), if I would get calls or if I would simply be forgotten. Then I decided I would not be forgotten because the divorce would go through and eventually I'd be kicked onto the street.

These are just a sample of the the thoughts of the broken hopeless person I had become..

The first couple of days, the techs were almost lax when it came to my eating habits. (Or lack thereof). But soon they would force me out of bed and out of the room to join the others in meals, most of which I barely touched. It was then that my high level of social anxiety became very apparent. I would take a roll, pull pieces off and nibble while rocking back and forth. I don't think I ever actually finished the roll, let alone the rest of the meal because all I remember were more tears. Silent yet steadily streaming down my cheeks. I was hot but my skin was cold and clammy. Next thing I knew, I would wake in my room, hours later, curled up in a fetal position and wrapped in blankets with no recollection of how I ended up there. It was awhile before I realized that they were medicating my anxiety during the day, but during the evening they didn't bother as they figured the sleeping pill would be enough.

Day 5 was the first time I ventured out of my room of my own volition. It was the first time I comprehended I had a doctor overseeing my status and medication, as well as a social worker overseeing other aspects of the situation that I still don't quite understand. It was the first day I had a conversation with my doctor. The usual questions were asked and always answered honestly. Yes, I still want to die. No I don't want to hurt anyone else. No I have not been hurting myself nor do I want to. I just don't want to live. No I don't know my family's psychological history. No I do not have any friends or family on the outside. Yes I was abused as a child and as an adult, physically, sexually, and probably emotionally too considering self-confidence was no longer even in my vocabulary. I got defensive during the questioning. And as I did, my anxiety rose. My blood pressure was taken, it was so low that they took it 3 more times to be certain the reading was right. Twice with the machine and once the 'old school' way. I felt the haze coming on as he said he was going to adjust my medications and encourage me to attend the group therapies that took place. I remember glaring at him and telling him flat-out that my anxiety would not allow me to join group. That I needed one-on-one. That I read it in my original notes fro my first psychiatrist. He simply stated he would up my meds and for me to try.. Feeling dizzy, I was offered more meds and I wend back to my room and slept for 12 hours, missing breakfast, lunch, and snack and would have missed dinner as well had I not been woken.

Day 8 - He came to visit. I was still a mess of emotion. Still feeling worthless. I tried to have a normal conversation but all I could remember was the painful words of the screenshot. I had asked if we were still getting a divorce. He said yes. I asked if there was another girl (half-hoping that was the case cause then I could make sense of everything) he said no. I don't remember much of the conversation, other than getting up and walking away murmuring about how I was a controlling abuser and have never nor could ever love anyone or care about anyone and I believed every word. I didn't look back, instead focusing on how my mother was right all along. That if my own dad could not love me as a baby, no one would love me as an adult. I did not have another visitation from him again, nor anyone else for the rest of my stay. I believed the reason to be was that I was not worth the effort.

Day 9 I was threatened by one of the nurses that if I didn't start going to group I would be sent to the West Unit. (Where all the real problem people are.) This scared me, so I forced myself to try.. I could never last longer that 10 minutes in the room due to my anxiety. I tried three times and finally just gave up, deciding that being transferred would be better anyway since from what I had heard, they tended to over-medicate the real crazies and maybe I would get lucky enough to be one of the ones over-medicated.

Day 10 I met with a woman who was to interview me and determine my eligibility for SMI Disability Insurance. The "interview" turned into a 2 hour long session because the flood-gates opened then and everything came pouring out. Every horrible graphic detail of my childhood all the way to how I ended up in the facility. I used up nearly two boxes of tissues from crying so much. When I finally looked up at her, her eyes met mine controlled yet seemingly damp and slightly horrified. I then apologized profusely and she asked if I had ever talked to anyone before and I admitted that she was the first. She looked down at her papers as she straightened them.. I merely noted how much writing there was that then immediately felt the flush of deep shame and I apologized again. She told me not to.. that I had nothing to be sorry for.. but I felt horrible. The rest of the day, I stayed in my room, coming out only for meds and the meal I knew I would be forced to attend.

Day 11 was my first real sit down with the social worker. I vented about the groups and how my papers stated that I needed 1:1 therapy and how I wasn't getting it and how I felt like I was being treated like a number. I vented about how the nurses asked us to trust them yet half of them couldn't be friendly or even remember my name and how I felt like I was in something that resembled a mix of a prison and a dog pound and how I still felt worthless and how I questioned everything I have ever stood for.... and he listened.

In fact it was the first time that someone actually payed attention to me, heard what I was saying, and offered feedback. He sat with me for over 2 hours conversing and taking the time to actually tell me I was not worthless. That my core values mattered. That he had faith in me and believed in me. By the end of our conversation I went from feeling like a worthless waste of space to someone who still had worth. It wasn't a strong feeling. In fact it was quite tiny and fragile. But it was the first time in months that I felt like I *might* be able to handle the road ahead. I left the room with a seed of hope. That evening, the hope grew bit by bit. By morning, I was up and waiting for him and my doctor in the hall at 5:30am. I sat there and right when they came in, I nearly ambushed them saying I was ready to go home. And I was persistent until finally they said "okay".

And I got out.

My hope is still very, very small. Puny even. It's fragile, cracked, and held together with little more than paste and string. But it's there. And it's mine.

I just need help to get it to grow stronger. And I know that will take a lot of work, especially since it's mostly on me and I am trying to have it take the place of decades of negativity. I'm still scared. Petrified of what is to come... and praying to the powers that be that the choices I make as far as those I decide to keep in my life will not play a part in destroying the infinitesimal bit I have finally found.

I don't want to feel like dying again... Because I really feel that if I return to that point, there wont be a chance to come back. Because I wont bother to ask for help. I will just do it with no warning.